


Festive Spirit

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Series: Spirit of the Occasion [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Ridiculous amounts of cheesy festive fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis isn't feeling very Christmassy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Festive Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Some Christmas-themed fluff as my gift to all of you who have taken the time to read my fic and share your own.
> 
> It's a little early because I'm working right up 'til Christmas, but...
> 
> Merry Christmas (:

The usually drab décor of the pub’s function room has been given a perfunctory makeover, one that incorporates far too much glitter and gaudily coloured streamers in Lewis’s opinion. He decides he prefers it in its natural state: scuffs, stains, and all.

That opinion may have something more to do with the rowdy, alcohol-fuelled whooping and over-loud laughter that create the background clamour, to the accompaniment of a succession of cheesy Christmas tunes.

The rest of the off-duty contingent of the Thames Valley CID seem to be enjoying it all, but Robbie Lewis is unable to summon the enthusiasm that such an occasions calls for. He can’t pinpoint exactly why, but the good mood everyone else is infused with seems to remain just out of his reach.

He’s quite content to stand at the bar with his pint, wondering what it is about this time of the year that puts everyone in such high spirits. Everyone bar him.

“Not dancing then, sir?”

Lewis snorts and shoots a withering look at the man joining him, propping himself against the bar beside him. “Not likely, man. I wouldn’t want to subject you all to that particular horror.”

“I imagine you’re a fine dancer, sir.” Hathaway leans close, his shoulder pressing against Lewis’s so he can be heard over the din.

“I don’t know what you’re basing that assumption on. Besides, I wouldn’t call that dancing.” Lewis waves his glass at the crowd of people moving around in an unsynchronized throng on the miniscule dance floor.

Hathaway huffs a laugh, finding nothing to disagree with in that observation.

“No, I’m perfectly happy with me beer, thanks. I’ll leave that lark to you younger lot.”

“That’s hardly in the spirit of the occasion, sir.”

Lewis scowls at his sergeant. “You won’t find me wearing one of those hats, either.”

“That’s a shame.” Hathaway’s expression is its usual inscrutable mask, but Lewis’s practiced eye detects the hint of a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Before either of them can say anything more, they are joined by a young woman, her hair loose and face slightly flushed. Lewis recognizes her, but can’t recall her name.

“Evening, sir.” She greets Lewis in an incongruously formal tone before turning her attention to Hathaway. “You’ll join me for a dance, won’t you, James?”

Hathaway looks suddenly mortified, and Lewis can’t prevent a smug smile forming.

“Uh, I’m…” Hathaway struggles to think up a suitable demurral so Lewis takes great pleasure in giving him a nudge with his elbow.

“Go on, man. Spirit of the occasion and all.”

Hathaway turns his look of horrified distress on Lewis but is rewarded only with a beaming grin as he dragged off toward the other dancers. Lewis’s smile wanes as Hathaway is swallowed by the crowd. He watches, catching the occasional glimpse of James’s blond head. 

Then, as the bodies part briefly, Lewis has an unobstructed view of his sergeant. His initial reluctance seems to have subsided; he is dancing. Really dancing. Longs limbs that could easily have been ungainly are instead moving in time to the music with a relaxed ease, his eyes half-lidded as he loses himself in the moment.

So transfixed is Lewis that he doesn’t notice someone else taking Hathaway’s vacated spot beside him.

“Robbie?”

With a start, Lewis turns, his mind scrambling back from wherever it had just been wandering. “Laura!” He bends to give her a peck on the cheek. “You came then.”

“I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to watch you lot making fools of yourselves.” She smiles wickedly.

“Not me.”

“Where’s your other half?”

Lewis needs no clarification; she means Hathaway. The two of them have been humorously referred to as two halves of the same whole for so long now that it’s almost natural to accept it as true. He inclines his head toward the dance floor and Laura follows his gaze, her own surprise registering in the quirk of an eyebrow. She turns back to Lewis, amused. “Not going to join them?”

“Not likely.”

“So you’re the self-appointed Scrooge for the night, are you?”

“Bah humbug.”

Laura looks amused, but also faintly concerned.

“Sorry. I’m not really in the party mood.” Lewis’s apology is genuine; he feels like he is casting a shadow over everybody else’s fun. Laura gives him an understanding smile and squeezes his arm briefly before looking out towards the dancers.

“James is letting his hair down.” There is a note of pleasantly astonished incredulity in Laura’s voice as the sergeant moves back into view for a moment. Lewis nods distracted agreement, his eyes on Hathaway again. “Looks like he’s having fun”

“Aye, it does.”

Something in Lewis’s tone brings the crease of a thoughtful frown to Laura’s brow as she glances across at him. Lewis belatedly notices her expression and feels a moment of alarm as he wonders what she’s thinking, what in his own expression has prompted such intense contemplation.

When she finally speaks, her words do nothing to allay his unease.

“You should listen to your heart, Robbie. You deserve to be happy.”

Lewis frowns himself now, hoping he is conveying confusion rather than panic. “Eh?”

“You both do.”

Lewis doesn’t know what to say in response to that. This conversation has left him floundering, barely able to make sense of his own thoughts, let alone formulate a coherent reply. Laura somehow seems to understand; she smiles encouragingly and stretches up onto her toes to give him another brief kiss.

“Merry Christmas, Robbie.”

“…Merry Christmas,” Lewis belatedly manages to mumble as Laura drifts away, heading for a small group of laughing officers.

Lewis drains the remainder of his pint in one gulp and, avoiding making eye contact with anyone, slips out of the pub into the evening chill.

****

Standing in his kitchen, Lewis attempts to recall what he went in there for. He’s staring at the kettle. That’s it; bit too early for bed still, so he was going to make a cup of tea.

He switches the kettle on with an almost angry flick, wishing his brain had such a simple switch. Perhaps then he could stop his mind wandering off down these foolish roads, halt the fanciful notions before they develop into something he needs to worry about.

He’s said it before: James needs to find himself a partner. That’s why he encouraged the bloke to accept the young woman’s invitation to dance. But, as Laura had so perceptively noted, couldn’t the same be said for himself?

Or, is he reading too much into her comment?

The kettle’s boiling, and Lewis fumbles in the cupboard for a mug, trying to focus his mind on the practical, the rational. He is never usually given to flights of fancy.

The trill of the doorbell interrupts his efforts, but throws him for a second. Who would be paying him a visit at this time of night?

Opening the door to reveal his visitor, Lewis’s eyebrows raise with surprise that lasts only a moment as he realizes he would have been more shocked had it been anyone other than James Hathaway on his doorstep.

“Sergeant?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Hathaway’s breath puffs out in a cloud of mist and Lewis feels the chilly air curl around his ankles.

“Of course. Sorry.” He steps back to allow Hathaway entry. When he turns back from shutting the door, the sergeant is still hovering nearby, apparently uncertain where to put himself now he’s here. “What are you doing here?”

“You left the party early.” It’s a simple statement of fact.

Lewis offers a grimace of apology. “Wasn’t really in the mood.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“You were having fun. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Lewis doesn’t know what to say to that. Hathaway’s expression is as inscrutable as ever; Lewis can’t even begin to figure out what has brought the man here when he had been having such a good time at the party. Instead of trying, he sighs and waves a hand toward the kitchen.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I’ve had far too much already.”

“Tea then? I was just making one anyway.”

Hathaway dips his head in acceptance. “Okay. Thank you.”

While Lewis returns to the kitchen to re-boil the kettle and recommence his hunt for mugs, Hathaway unwinds his scarf and removes his coat, hanging both garments on one of the hooks beside the door. When Lewis returns with the tea, he finds his sergeant perched on the sofa, staring at the wall opposite.

Lewis holds the mug under Hathaway’s nose, breaking the lad out of whatever reverie he was lost in. With a word of thanks, Hathaway accepts the tea, wraps his fingers around the warm mug and blows meditatively across the surface of the liquid.

After a few minutes of silence, Lewis asks, “So, what _are_ you doing here?”

Hathaway doesn’t reply straight away; Lewis assumes he is deciding how truthful an answer to give.

Eventually, he finds his voice. “I never got my dance.”

“You were dancing with that…” Lewis pauses as he realizes he never did recall the girl’s name. “…Lass for ages.”

Hathaway shakes his head slowly. Lewis frowns, unable to interpret the gesture, but Hathaway doesn’t look at him. Instead, he places his half-empty mug on the coffee table, stands and takes the few steps across to Lewis’s stereo. Taking his iPod from a pocket, he slots it into the little docking bit on top that Lewis has never had much use for. A few seconds later, Lewis recognizes the opening notes of ‘Lonely this Christmas’.

Glancing at Hathaway with undisguised confusion, he tries to determine whether that was a deliberate choice or coincidence. The sergeant’s face once again provides no clue, but he finally breaks his silence.

“It wasn’t _her_ I wanted to dance with. Only I couldn’t ask the person I really wanted to.”

Butterflies take flight as Lewis’s mind races ahead, hardly daring to even consider that Hathaway is saying what he suspects he might be saying. “Why not?”

“I didn’t want him to become the subject of station gossip for the next year.”

“Maybe he would have told the rest of the station to mind their own bloody business.”

The twitch of a smile. “I’m sure he would have. I prefer it here, though. Cosier. Although you could do with a few decorations.”

“Not much point when I’m here on me own.”

“You’re not.” Lewis raises a mystified eyebrow at that, so Hathaway elaborates: “On your own.” He returns to the sofa and stands before Lewis with one hand extended towards him. “Now, before you think about disappearing again.”

“I’m not much good at dancing, mind.”

Hathaway merely stands there, waiting patiently, until Lewis places his mug down beside the sergeant’s and slips his own hand into the lad’s outstretched one. He notes a barely distinguishable tremble, but, almost immediately, fingers curl tightly around his and Lewis is tugged to his feet.

James leads him into a small clearing between items of furniture. It’s hardly suitable for use as a dance floor, but Hathaway doesn’t require much space; he turns, pulling Lewis close and sliding his arms around Lewis’s waist.

There is no technique involved in this particular dance, which is good news for Lewis; his mind is preoccupied with trying to obtain a grasp on the surreal situation he suddenly finds himself in. Only moments before he was suppressing all thoughts of anything beyond friendship; now, he is held within James’s embrace, moving gently to the music.

Yet, for all its incongruity, there is nothing dreamlike about the moment. The feel of James’s arms around him, the warm press of his body, seem so instinctive and genuine that it feels perfectly natural for Lewis to rest his head on James’s shoulder.

His hands rise of their own accord, coming to rest against James’s back, securing their embrace. James bows his head, rests his cheek gently against Lewis’s hair, and Lewis closes his eyes as he loses himself in the tender affection.

They remain that way until the song ends, fading into a brief silence until the next track begins: ‘Driving Home for Christmas’. Lewis now knows with certainty that the previous song hadn’t been a random selection – there is purpose in everything James Hathaway does.

James straightens a little, not moving away but leaning back slightly, so Lewis reluctantly raises his head, meeting his wide-eyed gaze. James looks faintly surprised, but the happy smile that softens his usually impassive features draws a mirroring expression from Lewis.

Then James dips his head again, bringing his lips close to Lewis’s ear.

“If I cook us Christmas dinner, will you agree to put up some decorations?”

The warm breath that puffs over his ear sends a shiver the length of Lewis’s spine and it takes him a moment to process James’s words. About to point out that they’ll both be working, Lewis realizes it doesn’t matter; they could find the time somehow.

“With all the trimmings?”

“All the trimmings.”

“I’m sure I can rustle up a few bits of tinsel.”

James’s smile becomes a bright grin that, seconds later, gains a mischievous edge.

“I’ll even get you started.” He frees himself from Lewis’s arms and returns to his coat where it hangs beside the door. A brief, irrational moment of panic as Lewis fears he’s about to leave is quickly quelled when, instead of pulling the coat on, James delves into a pocket.

He returns, something clutched in his hand, but steps past Lewis, stopping in the doorway that leads from the lounge through to the rest of the flat. Lewis watches, perplexed as James starts fiddling around above his head. Realization dawns as Lewis recognizes the small sprig of mistletoe.

He almost laughs. “I didn’t think you were the type to go in for all that corny clichéd stuff.”

“Perhaps the festive spirit has rubbed off on me.” His tone is all earnest logic, but there’s a nervous smile at the corners of his mouth as he once again extends a hand, beckoning Lewis forward with hopeful expectation.

“I’m not complaining.” Lewis gives him a warm smile as he covers the few feet separating them. “Perhaps you can lend me some.”

“Always happy to spread the joy.” It’s only a mumble; James is far more concerned with pulling Lewis back into an enfolding embrace, capturing his lips and breath in a tentative kiss that grows more assured when Lewis slips a hand around the back of his neck, fingers brushing the soft hair at his nape.

James tastes of wine, tea, and cigarettes, and it should feel strange, but it doesn’t. Minutes, hours, later when they eventually pull apart – just enough to draw breath – James rests his forehead against Lewis’s as the inspector gasps air back into his lungs, heart pounding against his ribs.

That festive spirit no longer seems so unobtainable.

“Merry Christmas, sir.”


End file.
